Now You See Me...

by Rochelle Krich

  “Well, you did frighten me.” I wasn’t surprised that he knew my real name—practically everyone at the Dutton’s signing had called me Molly. But I wasn’t thrilled. “Since you know my name, what’s yours?”

  “Reuben Jastrow.”

  “Show me some ID, Reuben Jastrow.”

  Tucking the magazine under his arm, he removed a wallet from the pocket of his gray wool slacks and handed it to me. I examined his driver’s license. Same name, same face, a little less gray in the hair. He was forty-eight, several years older than I’d guessed.

  I fished a pen and pad out of my purse and made a show of writing down his name, driver’s license number, and an address in Beverlywood, an upscale neighborhood near Beverly Hills.

  “Why are you stalking me?” I repeated after I returned his wallet.

  “I wasn’t—” He glanced around. “Can we talk somewhere private?”

  My heart was still racing. My stomach muscles were knotted. “I don’t think so. Right now I find crowds really appealing. Why the disguise, Reuben?”

  He looked confused. “The disguise?”

  I pointed to his head. “A hat instead of the yarmulke. The glasses. You weren’t wearing them the other times.”

  He lifted his cap and revealed a black suede yarmulke. “My contact lenses are monovision. One is for reading, the other for distance,” he said, replacing the cap. “They’re okay, but not perfect, especially at night, when I’d be on my way back to L.A.”

  His explanation rang true—my mother wears monovision contacts and complains about their limitations. But that didn’t mean it was true. “What shul do you go to, Reuben?”

  He named an Orthodox synagogue in Beverlywood.

  “Who’s the rabbi?” I asked, testing him.

  He told me that, too. “You can ask around about me, although I’d prefer you didn’t. We don’t want talk.”

  “We?” The word had a vaguely conspiratorial sound.

  “My family. This is a delicate matter.”

  I raised a brow. “Stalking me is delicate?”

  A beefy man standing nearby had been watching us. Now he approached and folded his arms. “Is this guy bothering you?” he asked me, glowering at Jastrow and the magazine, which Jastrow had twisted into a tight roll.

  Hardly a lethal weapon, even if words can kill. “No, I’m fine,” I told my defender. “Thanks, though.”

  “Okay, then.” He seemed disappointed and gave Jastrow a long warning look before he walked away.

  “I read your book,” Jastrow said. “I came to your signings to hear you, to see if you’re the right one.”

  “Three L.A. events didn’t do it for you?”

  “I was sure, but—” He broke off. “It’s complicated.”

  “Delicate and complicated, huh?” In spite of my annoyance, I was intrigued. Then I frowned. “How did you know I’d be at this hotel?”

  “I looked up your schedule on your website and followed you here from the book signing.”

  “You were there?” The fact that I hadn’t known made me feel vulnerable again.

  “In my car. There were so many people in the store—I knew I wouldn’t have a chance to talk to you. So I followed you. I figured you’d come down eventually to get dinner.”

  I studied him. “So you drove two hours to talk to me?”

  “I’m in insurance. Some of my clients live in the area. I made appointments.” Unfurling the magazine, Jastrow slipped it into a black briefcase and took out a business card that he handed me. “I was out of these last night. This isn’t something I wanted to discuss on the phone.”

  I glanced at the card before dropping it into my purse. “Which clients did you see?”

  He named two. “You can call them. They’ll verify that I met with them today.” He looked around again. “Can we sit somewhere? Give me five minutes. If you’re not interested in what I have to say, I won’t bother you again.”

  I chewed on my lip. “What’s delicate and complicated, Reuben?”

  “My daughter ran away three days ago. We want you to find her and bring her home.”

  Chapter 3

  We found a table at the back of the hotel’s restaurant. Jastrow was silent while the waitress took our orders—the man was obsessive about privacy, though I doubted that anyone nearby was interested in our conversation—so I followed his lead.

  “You should be talking to the police, not to me, Mr. Jastrow,” I said when the waitress left. “Have you contacted them?”

  “We don’t want to involve them. And it’s not a police matter. My daughter wasn’t kidnapped. She ran away. And she’s eighteen, legally an adult.” He pushed his glasses against the bridge of his thin nose. “We know you’ve helped the police. That’s one of the reasons I came to you.”

  Over the past year I had become involved in several criminal investigations, a fact I still find hard to believe. The first two times, I’d been drawn by intriguing items I’d read while collecting data for my crime column. The third had been personal. Each had ultimately been a harrowing experience, and while I didn’t regret my involvement, my brushes with violence and my mortality still gave me nightmares. I wasn’t eager to incur more.

  I didn’t feel the need to explain all that. “I’ve never tried to find a missing person. I wouldn’t know where to begin. You need a professional.”

  “You found Aggie Lasher’s killer. The police didn’t, for almost six years.”

  Aggie was my best friend. Her murder was the personal investigation. Though I had found a measure of solace in the truth that eluded everyone for so long, and in the knowledge that justice was finally served, thinking about her brought a stab of fresh loss. So I was offended by what I saw as Jastrow’s manipulation.

  “New evidence came up,” I said, making light of a situation that had been anything but. “I was lucky.”

  “From what I heard, you were persistent. And smart.” He leaned toward me. “And discreet. That’s what I admired about your book, too, and your comments at the Thousand Oaks’s signing. You protect your sources.”

  His flattery was car-salesman cloying. “What if your daughter didn’t run away?” I said. “Have you checked the hospitals? She may have been involved in a car accident.”

  Or worse, I thought, blinking away a kaleidoscope of gruesome images. Collecting data for my column has made me uncomfortably aware of how vulnerable we all are.

  “She’s with a man she met on the Internet, in a chat room. She phoned her sister Monday, and again this morning. She doesn’t want us to worry.” Jastrow grunted. “It’s an Orthodox Jewish chat room, so she thought it was safe,” he added, the irony tinged with bitterness. “Dinah thought she was safe when she left her family’s tent to see the town.”

  The biblical Dinah, Jacob’s daughter, raped by Schechem and then held against her will. I’ve heard too many stories about teenage girls and adult women, lured into danger by men they’ve met on the Internet. Like Kacie Woody, who was kidnapped, sexually assaulted, and murdered by a forty-seven-year-old man who befriended her in a Christian chat room.

  My heart ached for the man sitting across from me. “So you think your daughter was . . .”

  “We’re trying not to think. We’re praying that he didn’t . . . that she’s. . . .” Jastrow had been playing with his knife. He set it down, clanking the foot of his water goblet. “She doesn’t realize this could ruin her life. Not just her life. Her older sister and brother are of marriageable age, and there are younger siblings. If this gets out. . . .”

  This was the “delicate” part. The Orthodox community I know and love is close-knit and supportive, but a hint of unconventional behavior can be the kiss of death for a family when parents vet prospective spouses for their children. And a teenage girl who runs away with a man . . .

  “If your daughter left three days ago, Mr. Jastrow, people must know by now.”

  “Outside of the family, only the friend where our daughter was supposedly spending
Sunday night.”

  “What about people at her school? Where does she go, by the way?”

  “Torat Tzion. Only the Jewish studies principal knows. He won’t say anything.”

  I was familiar with the modern Orthodox high school. “And the secular studies principal?”

  “Dr. Mendes. She doesn’t know. The official story is that my daughter flew to New York for a cousin’s wedding. She developed bronchitis and can’t travel until she feels better. Next week is Thanksgiving, so that gives us more time. And we’re praying she’ll be home before then.”

  A good story, I thought, but one that would work for only so long. “How do you know about the chat room?”

  “From the friend. She claims she doesn’t know this man’s name, but she may be protecting my daughter, and herself.” His pursed lips indicated what he thought of the friend. “We’re hoping you can find out what she does know.”

  I was moved by his plight. I wanted to help. I doubted I could succeed. “I am so sorry about your daughter, Mr. Jastrow. I understand your concern about keeping this quiet, but you really need a private detective. I can ask my police contact for recommendations.”

  “A detective is a last resort,” he admitted. “This friend won’t be as forthcoming with a detective as she’d be with you. Her parents may not even let her talk to a detective. You’re frum, Miss Blume. You’re part of the community. You’d know what to say, what not to say. And as you mentioned, you have police connections. Maybe you could get them to help you, unofficially. Also—” Jastrow stopped.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw our waitress approaching. Jastrow fidgeted with a napkin while she set down his iced tea and my coffee. From his strained smile and thank you, I could tell he was eager for her to be gone.

  “It’s not just finding my daughter,” he said when we were alone again. “It’s convincing her to come home. She’s more likely to listen to you than to a stranger. You were her counselor in B’nos. She was five at the time, but you made an impression.”

  I added sweetener to my coffee and stirred. I hadn’t thought about the Shabbat afternoon program in ages. During my four years of high school, I’d probably been in charge of hundreds of ponytailed little girls who had come for the games and stories and nosh. Twenty-some years ago, I’d been one of those little girls.

  “She follows your work,” Jastrow said. “She admires you.” He removed an envelope from his briefcase and took out a photo that he slid toward me. “That’s her.”

  It was a glossy five-by-seven with a swirled blue background similar to the one my three sisters and I had posed against when we were seniors. Jastrow’s daughter was pretty, with curly shoulder-length strawberry-blond hair, bright lively blue eyes, full lips that allowed a timid smile, a hint of dimples. Heavy makeup (de rigueur for the yearbook, aka a “shidduch book” perused by parents seeking mates for their sons) made her look glamorous and sophisticated, closer to twenty-two than eighteen.

  In spite of my reservations I was being drawn in. “What’s her name?” I asked with reluctance. A name would make it harder to walk away. I took a sip of coffee.

  “Hadassah. So you’ll do it? You’ll help?” His tone was imploring, urgent.

  I nodded and hoped I wasn’t getting in over my head. “Hadassah Jastrow,” I said. “I have to be honest. I don’t remember her.”

  He returned the photo to his briefcase. “Actually, her last name isn’t Jastrow.”

  “She’s your stepdaughter?”

  He looked uneasy. “My niece. I was afraid if I told you right away, you wouldn’t give me a chance to explain.”

  For a moment I was too shocked to speak. I glared at him. “You lied to me?”

  “She’s not my daughter, no. But everything else I told you is true. Her last name is Bailor.”

  “Why would I—” I jostled my cup as I set it down. Coffee sloshed over the rim and onto the table. “Rabbi Bailor’s daughter? Chaim Bailor?”

  The Judaic studies teacher I had adored, the man who had later made me feel that I was a disappointment to him, to the school, to the community, to the world.

  Jastrow’s silence was an answer.

  “So Rabbi Bailor sent you,” I said, my face tingling. “He was afraid to approach me himself.”

  Set the hook, reel me in. No wonder Jastrow was confident that the Jewish studies principal of Torat Tzion would keep Hadassah Bailor’s disappearance under wraps. Rabbi Bailor was that principal.

  “My brother-in-law doesn’t know I’m here. When I heard about your Dutton’s signing, I thought, This is bashert. I told Nechama and Chaim, but they were sure Hadassah would come back on her own. Now they realize she isn’t going to.”

  My mind was whirling. I blotted the table and saucer with a paper napkin. “Maybe he doesn’t want my help.”

  “He does. He’s certain you’ll say no. I’m hoping you’ll prove him wrong.”

  The man was good. “If I agree to help—and I’m not saying yes,” I said, raising a warning hand. “If I do it, I’d have to have access to Hadassah’s things. Her computer, papers, books. Her friends.”

  Jastrow nodded. “The one friend I told you about, yes. I don’t know about the others. The more questions you ask, the more talk there will be. That’s what we want to avoid.”

  This, I guessed, was the “complicated” part. “I can’t exactly find Hadassah if I don’t ask questions.”

  “You can ask about her indirectly. Maybe you can say you’re doing an article on Jewish chat rooms or the school. Something like that.”

  I doubted that the idea had popped into Jastrow’s head. He’d probably been confident that I’d agree. That annoyed me, but I had to admit his suggestion had merit.

  “I’d have to ask the family questions that might make them uncomfortable,” I said.

  “I don’t know that you’ll find answers. Hadassah is a good girl. None of us saw anything that would explain why she would run away.”

  “Good girls run away sometimes,” I said. “And they usually don’t decide to do it overnight.”

  Chapter 4

  From the lobby I watched Jastrow fold himself into a dark blue Volvo that the valet had brought to a screeching halt in the semicircular driveway. Minutes after Jastrow left, I walked to my car and drove to Sheila’s, a kosher restaurant, where I enjoyed a salad, grilled chicken, and a giant chocolate chip cookie. I was the only lone diner in a restaurant packed with families, but Sheila treats customers like friends, and she stopped by frequently to chat. I bought several more cookies and half a dozen biscotti to take back to the hotel. When you’re on tour, comfort food is essential, and I needed extra comforting.

  I was in a tank top and pajama bottoms, lying on my bed and watching Law and Order, when Zack phoned me on my cell phone. I had talked to him throughout the day, including several times on my drive down to San Diego and once after the book signing. Hearing his voice eased my loneliness and intensified it at the same time, if that makes any sense.

  I lowered the volume on the TV. “Now I understand why the rabbis say you’re not supposed to be apart during the first year of marriage.”

  “Rabbis are smart,” Zack said. “How was dinner? How are you?”

  “Fine and fine.”

  “You don’t sound fine. You sound glum. Something on your mind?”

  Hadassah Bailor. But there was no point in telling Zack about her over the phone. “I wish I were home.”

  “Me, too. Where are you right now?”

  “In my room, on a king-size bed that’s such a waste.” God, I missed him. “How’s Mrs. Kroen?”

  “I left her a few hours ago. Her brother is with her, plus several friends. I don’t think the reality of her husband’s death has struck yet, but she’s a strong woman.”

  “Please tell her I’m sorry I can’t be at the funeral tomorrow morning. I’ll pay a shiva call on Sunday.”

  Though as the rabbi’s wife I’m not obligated to attend every congregant’s funera
l, I knew Mrs. Kroen and wanted to be there for her. But I had a newspaper interview and two radio interviews scheduled for tomorrow.

  “I’ll tell Mrs. Kroen,” Zack said. “So what are you doing right now?”

  “Watching TV and eating chocolate chip cookies—my idea of multitasking. I’d offer to save a cookie for you, but I have no willpower.”

  “At least you’re honest.”

  “Speaking of honest, how was my meat loaf?”

  “Speaking of honest, I froze it. My parents invited me to dinner.”

  I frowned. “But you told them I prepared dinner, right? I don’t want them to think I’m neglecting you.”

  “I did. They don’t. I’m the one who pushed you to go, remember? They’re proud of you, Molly. They send their love. So does your family. Edie, Mindy, Judah, your mom. They all invited me to dinner. And Joey asked if I wanted to play a pickup game.”

  “You’re not annoyed, are you?”

  As an only child Zack is still adjusting to being part of my large, boisterous family. There are seven of us Blume siblings—four female, three male. I’m number three, and sometimes I feel overwhelmed.

  “Actually, being doted on is fun,” he said. “I could get used to this.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Right.” He laughed. “Ask me what I’m doing right now, Molly.”

  If I knew Zack, he’d taken advantage of my absence to unpack the boxes that were occupying most of the space in the second bedroom, even though we’d moved into our house six months ago. That’s what I told him.

  “A good idea, but guess again,” he said.

  “Polishing your drash for Shabbos.”

  “Already polished, with your edits. Living with a writer has its perks. FYI, I undangled the participle.”

  “Participles should never dangle. So what are you doing?”

  “Making a delivery.”

  “What kind? I assume you don’t mean a baby.”

  “That would be correct, and lucky for the baby and mother. Why don’t you open your door?”

  I turned my head toward it. “Why would I do that?”